Well, it certainly was not my intention, but I have fallen behind on keeping everyone up-to-date on my absolutely thrilling journey through my recovery.
Life and other writing ventures have taken a toll on my blog duties, but alas, I am here to thread my knee's soul and self-righteous happenings in an ever-slighted manner once again. So here it goes.
I sort of have a love-hate relationship with the phrase "soul searching." In a connotative way, it makes me think of someone who is completely lost, washed up, or making excuses for bad behavior, rather than someone who is just growing and learning with time and whatever else may be pushing them. (Side note: this could be because Train's song, Drops of Jupiter implies that "looking for yourself" takes place on a distant planet, but I think we're all continually soul searching).
That being said, I've tapped into my soul searching database lately and consistently found myself in different conundrums. I battled my own inner dialogue and self-perception with different life events or actions. Such as: I consider myself a pretty great athlete, yet I've been out of the game of true competition for so long - do I re-evaluate? I enjoy so many specific hobbies, like jigsaw puzzles, crafting, and cooking, but half of my free time is spent relaxing and catching up on television and sleep - am I as invested in my hobbies as I claim? Am I who I say I am?
It's been tough to define or confine myself to specific categories that I have always considered myself to be a part of. But I think the biggest doubt that has been pushed to the forefront, especially in honor of Women's History Month, is my ability to claim the #independentwoman title. Whereas this has almost always been a shoo-in for me, my soul-searching dilemma put me at odds with it. Similarly, my most recently busted knee also told me that she is slightly concerned about her independence. So we chatted and thought about where we fit in to the scheme of being our own women.
When I first got to college, I was (as with many wide-eyed Freshmen) completely overwhelmed with every aspect of this new world.School did not take priority at the beginning, and eventually I found myself with a ton of units and decent grades, but no major. When my counselor walked me through choosing a course of action by the end of my second year, it turned out that the classes I had enjoyed the most, done the best in, and was most interested in learning more about, were Women's (later changed to Feminist) Studies courses. And so explains my B.A. in Feminist Studies.
It was awesome. I did projects on gender norms depicted through commercials from the 90s, rallied during Prop 8, and met people with just incredible, inspirational stories. I knew I had a very fortunate upbringing, but I had never taken the time to truly see what else was out there. Instead of deflecting and harboring guilt, I united with my peers and shared in their want to find equality in gender, yes, but other avenues as well. I wrote my thesis about the motivations that deter or push women towards exercise - if we do it for ourselves, skip it for others, or commit in order to appease someone else. That's an entirely different conversation, but it was interesting to say the least.
Congruent to my studies and fascination with my declared major, I found my voice as well. I got in my first real, serious relationship, expressed my wants and needs, pursued a career, and pushed the boundaries for things I felt were worthwhile. I paid the bills, made my own decisions, and weeded out people who didn't seem to fit into my new comfort zone. As with anything, there were of course hiccups and the like, but my understanding of feminism, being a woman during the 2000s, and just going after what I wanted became more and more clear.
The day I graduated college, I broke up with my boyfriend, moved into my first "adult" apartment, and started my full-time job by managing a group of people substantially older and more experienced than me. Seriously, all in one day. Perhaps I was on a mission to own that #independentwoman title, but in reality, I made a lot of mistakes. I cried over boys, messed up on deadlines, and struggled to learn how to budget time and money on my own. I was too stubborn to ask for help, too ego-driven to admit my mistakes, and too proud to try and slow down and readjust.
It was kind of like...going out for a first jog after an ACL recovery, feeling good, pain-free, and proud, and then immediately ripping off the brace and running back to back wind sprints. I rushed the process. Instead of progressing naturally and slowly, I set myself back - arguably, worse off than where I began.
Life and other writing ventures have taken a toll on my blog duties, but alas, I am here to thread my knee's soul and self-righteous happenings in an ever-slighted manner once again. So here it goes.
I sort of have a love-hate relationship with the phrase "soul searching." In a connotative way, it makes me think of someone who is completely lost, washed up, or making excuses for bad behavior, rather than someone who is just growing and learning with time and whatever else may be pushing them. (Side note: this could be because Train's song, Drops of Jupiter implies that "looking for yourself" takes place on a distant planet, but I think we're all continually soul searching).
That being said, I've tapped into my soul searching database lately and consistently found myself in different conundrums. I battled my own inner dialogue and self-perception with different life events or actions. Such as: I consider myself a pretty great athlete, yet I've been out of the game of true competition for so long - do I re-evaluate? I enjoy so many specific hobbies, like jigsaw puzzles, crafting, and cooking, but half of my free time is spent relaxing and catching up on television and sleep - am I as invested in my hobbies as I claim? Am I who I say I am?
It's been tough to define or confine myself to specific categories that I have always considered myself to be a part of. But I think the biggest doubt that has been pushed to the forefront, especially in honor of Women's History Month, is my ability to claim the #independentwoman title. Whereas this has almost always been a shoo-in for me, my soul-searching dilemma put me at odds with it. Similarly, my most recently busted knee also told me that she is slightly concerned about her independence. So we chatted and thought about where we fit in to the scheme of being our own women.
When I first got to college, I was (as with many wide-eyed Freshmen) completely overwhelmed with every aspect of this new world.School did not take priority at the beginning, and eventually I found myself with a ton of units and decent grades, but no major. When my counselor walked me through choosing a course of action by the end of my second year, it turned out that the classes I had enjoyed the most, done the best in, and was most interested in learning more about, were Women's (later changed to Feminist) Studies courses. And so explains my B.A. in Feminist Studies.
It was awesome. I did projects on gender norms depicted through commercials from the 90s, rallied during Prop 8, and met people with just incredible, inspirational stories. I knew I had a very fortunate upbringing, but I had never taken the time to truly see what else was out there. Instead of deflecting and harboring guilt, I united with my peers and shared in their want to find equality in gender, yes, but other avenues as well. I wrote my thesis about the motivations that deter or push women towards exercise - if we do it for ourselves, skip it for others, or commit in order to appease someone else. That's an entirely different conversation, but it was interesting to say the least.
Congruent to my studies and fascination with my declared major, I found my voice as well. I got in my first real, serious relationship, expressed my wants and needs, pursued a career, and pushed the boundaries for things I felt were worthwhile. I paid the bills, made my own decisions, and weeded out people who didn't seem to fit into my new comfort zone. As with anything, there were of course hiccups and the like, but my understanding of feminism, being a woman during the 2000s, and just going after what I wanted became more and more clear.
The day I graduated college, I broke up with my boyfriend, moved into my first "adult" apartment, and started my full-time job by managing a group of people substantially older and more experienced than me. Seriously, all in one day. Perhaps I was on a mission to own that #independentwoman title, but in reality, I made a lot of mistakes. I cried over boys, messed up on deadlines, and struggled to learn how to budget time and money on my own. I was too stubborn to ask for help, too ego-driven to admit my mistakes, and too proud to try and slow down and readjust.
It was kind of like...going out for a first jog after an ACL recovery, feeling good, pain-free, and proud, and then immediately ripping off the brace and running back to back wind sprints. I rushed the process. Instead of progressing naturally and slowly, I set myself back - arguably, worse off than where I began.
Hence my conundrum. I had all this badass-ness, independent-ness going for me and then was a bumbling mess. Insert my lady on the right (knee), and she feels the same. The first ACL blow immediately made her question her stability and control. She was impatient in recovery, distraught, and dragged through a big ole mess for an extended period of time. Is she less knee because of it? Just a submissive victim doing her best to keep up with the other side even though things could never truly feel equal again?
There are so many gender normative stereotypes out there, that often times if I share a similarity, I doubt my strength and power. I need certain types of attention, help, and validation. I question my physical, mental, and emotional independence and begin to drop into a puddle of weariness opposite of the rallying, confident, and driven woman I claim to be. How can I be the mover and shaker and inspiration for change if I am still a crushed little girl at times? My knee(s) empathize. How can they be the women who portray strength and character and resilience if they are constantly slipping up and struggling to recover?
All of these questions have been haunting my knees and me, and our soul searching was meddled with angst and doubt. We want to stand on our own. Literally. Yet there are things we need. We need doctors and therapists and stitches and patience. We need a gentle touch or condolences once in a while - things that are often tailored as customized for women and unacceptable for men. Does embracing these needs make us less independent? Less fearless? Strip us of our independence?
I thought it might, but the answer is no. If anyone knows about faltering, struggling, and pursuing, it's women. Not exclusively, but certainly historically. So my knees and I sat down and re-evaluated our conundrums. We talked about our mistakes, our successes, and our unfortunate repeated mishaps. We decided that our independence is not defined by upholding an outward exterior that is void of struggle, but rather by the acknowledgement of that and the support of each other to get through it together.
We are independent women. My knee is a she, and she is torn and tired and tattered, but she is also a fighter. She has carried so much scrutiny, endured so much push and pull, been subjected to endless poking and prodding. She embodies the type of change that inspires. Just this month, she pushed my body to new speeds, milestones, and progressions and asked for nothing in return. She deserves to be coddled a times, to be thanked and treated kindly. Not because she is a woman, but because she is outstanding.
I got teased at times throughout college because of my major and area of interest. People spray painted racial and sexual slurs outside of our classroom doors. We were often misunderstood. Feminism wasn't, and isn't, about women beating men back down in order to gain footing and new ground. Feminism is about equality on all fronts.
So yes, my knee is a feminist. She cares not about beating down other ligaments and limbs in order to appear stronger than them; she cares about taking the slow, often painful journey toward having equal opportunity as those who may have a head start on her. Just because she has tried too hard to rush the process in the past does not make her less of a woman or less of an #independentwoman. She makes mistakes and learns from them. She criticizes her scars, swelling, and mobility, but she has learned that these are some of the things that continue to shape who she is today. She is powerful.
She gets swept up at times, but is unwilling to settle in the dust.
She is my inspiration to continue the pursuit of balance.
There are so many gender normative stereotypes out there, that often times if I share a similarity, I doubt my strength and power. I need certain types of attention, help, and validation. I question my physical, mental, and emotional independence and begin to drop into a puddle of weariness opposite of the rallying, confident, and driven woman I claim to be. How can I be the mover and shaker and inspiration for change if I am still a crushed little girl at times? My knee(s) empathize. How can they be the women who portray strength and character and resilience if they are constantly slipping up and struggling to recover?
All of these questions have been haunting my knees and me, and our soul searching was meddled with angst and doubt. We want to stand on our own. Literally. Yet there are things we need. We need doctors and therapists and stitches and patience. We need a gentle touch or condolences once in a while - things that are often tailored as customized for women and unacceptable for men. Does embracing these needs make us less independent? Less fearless? Strip us of our independence?
I thought it might, but the answer is no. If anyone knows about faltering, struggling, and pursuing, it's women. Not exclusively, but certainly historically. So my knees and I sat down and re-evaluated our conundrums. We talked about our mistakes, our successes, and our unfortunate repeated mishaps. We decided that our independence is not defined by upholding an outward exterior that is void of struggle, but rather by the acknowledgement of that and the support of each other to get through it together.
We are independent women. My knee is a she, and she is torn and tired and tattered, but she is also a fighter. She has carried so much scrutiny, endured so much push and pull, been subjected to endless poking and prodding. She embodies the type of change that inspires. Just this month, she pushed my body to new speeds, milestones, and progressions and asked for nothing in return. She deserves to be coddled a times, to be thanked and treated kindly. Not because she is a woman, but because she is outstanding.
I got teased at times throughout college because of my major and area of interest. People spray painted racial and sexual slurs outside of our classroom doors. We were often misunderstood. Feminism wasn't, and isn't, about women beating men back down in order to gain footing and new ground. Feminism is about equality on all fronts.
So yes, my knee is a feminist. She cares not about beating down other ligaments and limbs in order to appear stronger than them; she cares about taking the slow, often painful journey toward having equal opportunity as those who may have a head start on her. Just because she has tried too hard to rush the process in the past does not make her less of a woman or less of an #independentwoman. She makes mistakes and learns from them. She criticizes her scars, swelling, and mobility, but she has learned that these are some of the things that continue to shape who she is today. She is powerful.
She gets swept up at times, but is unwilling to settle in the dust.
She is my inspiration to continue the pursuit of balance.
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